


Celebration

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [52]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage, Married Life, POV Brian Kinney, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With only a week to go until his fortieth birthday, Brian isn't exactly in good spirits. Justin tries his best to change Brian's mind and succeeds... in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brian

"There are worst things that could happen to you," Justin says, rolling his eyes, "Than a  _birthday,_ Brian."

He's been telling me this for weeks. Actually, he tells me this every year. It's a cycle we've perfected - my birthday approaches, I dread it to my very core, Sunshine tries to talk me through it, fails miserably, and then attempts to overcompensate with presents and festivities. Then as soon as the dreaded day has passed, I try to forget how fucking old I'm getting and indulge in delicious, delicious denial. Rinse and repeat. Justin's efforts get bigger and better every year, and I love him dearly for it, but it still does little to assuage my pain. Ageing may be inevitable, but it's also bullshit. I want no part of it.

"Said the twenty-eight year old," I snark, eliciting a frustrated groan from Justin. It's maybe the fifth time I've said that today and probably the fiftieth time this week. He snatches his hand out of mine and quickens his pace. We're walking home from the club, the final stop on tonight's instalment of my never-ending birthday bonanza which is doomed to last for two weeks.  _Two weeks._ Two fucking weeks of reminders that I'm turning forty. It's like the world is conspiring to dig the knife in as far as it will go.

It all began yesterday with a party at work. A surprise party, no less. It has unfortunately forced me to consider demoting or firing Cynthia, because how she could let a  _surprise party_ happen to me, I'll never know. Especially not one with the number forty screaming from a banner and bouncing around the room in the form of number-shaped balloons. Ugh. Amidst apologies, Cynthia claimed it was the product of a determined meeting of minds between the art department and a few of my favourite clients. They're all as good as dead to me now. Especially whoever decided on those stupid fucking balloons.

Today was Justin's day, just for us two. In his very determined and ambitious way, this year's festivities aimed to obliterate last year's. They succeeded by a long shot. I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't love it - I always love what he does for me. After all, what's not to love about a day that begins with brunch in bed and ends with dancing well into the night? Between those perfect bookends was wall-to-wall fucking and presents, dinner at my favourite restaurant, and so many blow jobs I've lost count. It's a wonder that we're still standing, and yet he's promising more sexual favours as soon as we're back home.  _This_ is the kind of birthday I can stand for. No banners, no balloons, no bullshit. Maybe next year we should go away somewhere; somewhere far away where everyone else and their insipid ideas for celebration can't follow. 

Of course, there's a certain someone who wouldn't stand for that, and that's my birthday-obsessed spawn. Next Saturday, on the dreaded day itself, Gus will be here with Linz, Mel, and a litany of birthday activities that almost certainly include more banners and balloons. Although Justin refused to reveal any specific details, he has warned me Gus' plans for celebration are 'alarmingly traditional'. I can imagine what this might entail. My son is the world's biggest aficionado of birthdays. He's never met a banner or a balloon he didn't love, and has also acquired a great passion for streamers, sparklers, cupcakes, and singing candles. As much as I may love him, I shudder at the thought. If he shows up next weekend with forty cupcakes or a cake with forty singing candles, I may have to disown him.

Maybe.

Well, probably not, because I happen to love the kid a whole lot. But his passion for birthdays is headache-inducing. Justin keeps telling me that's just what eleven-year-olds are like, but that's not exactly comforting because it only really serves to remind me that I have an eleven-year-old son.

I have an eleven-year-old son, and I'm a week shy of forty.

_I have an eleven-year-old son, and I'm a week shy of forty._

Fuck, fuck, fucking  _fuck._  


I begin to express my outrage to Justin, but apparently he's hit his limit. He keeps striding ahead, his face darkening. Because I'd rather play a petulant child than a grown man of forty, I snap, "You said I could have anything I want,  _darling._ Maybe I want to bitch and moan."

" _Maybe_ you want to bitch and moan? It's all you've done for the past month!"

"And I don't see you giving me any credit for showing such restraint," I drawl. "I've wanted to bitch and moan about this for the last  _year."_

"Are you seriously not seeing how childish and pointless that is?!"

"You might understand when you get to forty and your life is essentially over!"

Justin huffs, shaking his head. "You know... I'd ask if you're being serious, but I'd just be wasting my breath. Of course you're cynical enough to think your life is 'essentially over'. Jesus, Brian."

He sighs heavily, plucking a cigarette out of his coat pocket and holding it between his lips while he searches for his lighter. "God forbid you try your hand at optimism for once. I can think of plenty of things you could be happy about, but whatever."

I'm about to point out that optimism is a young person's game and that, as of next Saturday, I will well and truly be far removed from that category. But then Justin mutters, "I mean, I did really try to make today nice... but apparently that's not worth half a damn to you."

Well, shit. I didn't mean to make him think that. 

I allow him one drag before I snatch the cigarette away, drop it pointedly, and crush it underneath the heel of my shoe. Justin glares at me. I fish his lighter and the packet out of his pocket and stash them in my own. "No more smoking."

"Fuck off," he mutters, staring down the street. I reach out and touch the small of his back.

"Forgive me if I'm not all cheery and chipper. It doesn't mean today was great. Today was perfect." He perks up a little at that. I wrap my arm around him. "Perhaps I would be in better spirits about it if I weren't a week away from being  _forty."_  


"What a great tragedy!"

"Said the twenty-eight year old!"

"I don't want to fight with you!" Justin exclaims, stopping dead in his tracks and removing himself from my embrace. "That's not what we should be doing right now. Or... at all. I hate fighting with you."

"Then let's not."

"Okay, let's not. You can help by not throwing yourself into a pit of despair over a  _birthday."_

"My f-"

"Your fortieth, I know! Fuck, Brian, it's a  _number._ It's not the end of the goddamned world." 

"Said-"

"If you mention my age or yours one more time, I swear to  _god-_ " Justin cuts himself off before he can make any threat, but the implication is clear enough. He stares at me helplessly, then turns away. "Let's just drop it."

We walk the next block in silence. And the one after that. I hate it. I reach out and touch his wrist, testing the waters. He doesn't pull away, so I walk my finger up and down his forearm. A tiny hint of a smile plays on his lips. I lace my fingers through his and clasp his hand tightly in mine. He sidles up close to me and lets me kiss him.

"I loved every part of today," I murmur, squeezing his hand. "I love you for doing all of this for me. I mean it when I say it was perfect."

He eyes me suspiciously. "There's a 'but', isn't there?"

"But I wish I wasn't fucking forty."

Justin groans and laughs in exasperation. "Well, you still have a week. Take solace in the next seven days."

"It's not nearly enough. It's only a stay of execution, after all."

He sighs and we lapse back into silence, although it's less pained now and more peaceful. Justin burrows into my side and stays close the whole way home. Outside our building, he stops and glances at my coat pockets. In his most flirtacious tone, he asks, "Any chance I can have one more?"

"One more," I repeat resolutely. "You need to quit."

"You need to quit," he echoes sullenly.

I draw out two cigarettes and light them between my lips, then hand Justin his. As he takes a long drag, I touch his shoulder and ask, "Is it so bad that I want you healthy?"

"You just want to see me make it to forty so you can rub it in my face," he says, smirking.

"Yeah, well let's just see how calm you are when you're waist-deep in the grave."

"Since when is  _forty_ 'waist-deep in the grave'? Jeez, Bri." He pauses, watching me carefully. "I loathe to say this and I know you'll hate me for it - but you remind me of what my mom used to be like." 

I shrug. "There are worst things you could do than draw a comparison between me and Jennifer."

Justin smiles. "Right, I forgot how much you love my mom."

He says this in a teasing way, but it's true. When I don't fight him on it, he smiles some more. "Mom used to be so pissy about ageing. Then she read something in a book or a magazine or something - the author said she refuses to lie about her age, because she wants credit for every damned year."

"Does she want to take credit for a handful of mine, too?" 

Justin laughs, shaking his head at me. "You're impossible."

"That's not very optimistic of you, Sunshine."

He smirks and holds up his cigarette, making a point of extinguishing it early. I nod approvingly and follow suit. Justin grabs me by my belt and draws me close for a kiss. If he ever does quit smoking (which I'll make damn sure he does), I'll miss how he tastes right now. I savour it, that soft smokiness, kissing him deeply.

When he pulls away, he doesn't go far. I bump my nose over his, our chests brushing together. Justin hooks his fingers under the waistband of my jeans, caressing my hip. "I know I've said it already today, but I'd like to say it once more... will you let me wish you a happy birthday?"

"I'll allow it," I concede. "Although tomorrow we're going to have a serious talk about me shaving a few years off my age."

"Forty's not so bad."

When I don't say anything (I don't know what else there is to say), Justin steps back and says, "Look, I don't want to badger you and bully you into this. If you really want to mourn your 'lost youth' and angst over approaching forty I'll let you. But I think we've been together long enough that I at least get a say. Is there any chance you'll let me say my piece without dismissing me as some vacuous, naïve twenty-eight year old?"

"I would never," I say, very firmly, "Think of you as 'vacuous' or 'naïve'."

He grins a little. "So you'll hear me out?"

"Sure." I wave my hand, clearing him to proceed.

"Okay." Justin smiles at me gratefully, leaning against the wall of our building. "I know you've always been heavily invested in the mythology of 'young and beautiful'. I knew this birthday wouldn't be the easiest. And I know that what I'm about to say may not make even the slightest bit of difference, but I'd hate myself if I didn't try."

He shifts slightly, his eyes roaming over me. "I don't think there's anything I can do to convince you that forty isn't the end of the world... I mean, you literally twitch every time I say it. To say you're pathological about it would be a vast understatement. So I'm going to leave your fixation on youth aside for a moment - it's probably above my pay grade, anyway. So that leaves us with beauty, the other half of the magnificent mythology surrounding Brian Kinney."

I lean in and warn, "You're not saying that with even  _nearly_ enough reverence, Sunshine."

"Sorry," Justin chuckles. He clears his throat and repeats in an awed whisper, with a dramatic flourish of his hands, " _Brian Kinney."_  


"Much better," I say, and we burst out laughing.

A flurry of traffic passes by, spreading light over the two of us. As light scatters over Justin, I get a clearer glimpse of him and the soft gaze on his face. With an adoring smile, he recalls, "Well,  _Brian Kinney,_ I remember when I first saw you like it was yesterday. I saw you and you were staring at me with this... look in your eyes. I still don't know how to describe it. I'd never seen anything like it. And I couldn't believe that it was me you were looking at like that, that it was me you wanted. You were so fucking gorgeous - I didn't think I'd ever see anything or anyone as beautiful again in my life."

He laughs a little. "But then, of course, you had to prove me wrong. I got to know you. I got to be with you. I got to be your fuck buddy and your friend and your partner and your fiancé and everything in between. And I think the best way to put it is that, on that first night we met... it's like everything was black and white then, and now you're in full colour. You were beautiful then, but you're even more stunning now. You're the most gorgeous, wonderful, enthralling man in the world. And I'm just lucky that with every day I spend with you, you get even more so."

Justin pauses, his mouth curving into a tender smile. The street is quiet, the lights are dim - maybe his eyes look damp, or maybe it's just my imagination. He takes a breath and admits, "And that's what I like about birthdays - that it's another year I get to call ours. It's another year of discovering how amazing you are. I love the life we have and I _love_ that it only gets better and better. I love who you are, I love who we are, I love who I am with you. I have done things and become things that I never thought I could do or be. And I'm not going to say I couldn't have done it without you, because I know how much you hate that codependent, self-deprecating bullshit. But I will say that I wouldn't want to have lived this life without you in it. Moving to New York, conquering the art world, becoming Gus' dad, and everything else we've done together... I'm just so glad I got to have you by my side for all of it. I love you. And whether you're forty or fifty or sixty or... one-hundred-and-ten! It doesn't matter. I am always going to love you."

A car passes by, its headlights splashing light over the two of us. I'm tempted to look away so that he doesn't see the tears in my eyes, but I don't. Justin touches my arm gently and finishes in a soft whisper, "You might see yourself as ancient and decrepit, but I don't. I see the best version of my partner yet. So will you please just let me wish you a happy birthday? Because even if you aren't quite ready to be this age, I'm glad you are. You look more beautiful today than you ever have. I love you more right now than ever before. And I would really like us to celebrate all of that together. Okay?"

"Okay," I agree, my heart pounding in my chest, threatening to lurch up into my throat. "One thing, though."

"Anything," he promises, his smile like pure sunshine. I return it, just as I drop to my knees and take his hands in mine.

"Marry me."


	2. Brian

"Marry me."

This isn't where I expected to find myself tonight; kneeling on the sidewalk, Justin's hands clasped in mine, a proposal hovering between us. As soon as the words leave my mouth, shock hits. For a split second, I freeze up. I'm... proposing. I'm proposing?

I'm proposing.

Of course I'm proposing. I didn't exactly plan on this, but now that it's happening I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Wh- what?" Justin asks, his eyes going wide.

"Marry me," I repeat, bringing his left hand to meet with my lips. Justin's mouth is agape; his lips keep moving like he's torn between saying something and smiling and can't quite choose which.

Since he's speechless, I suppose I should actually say something more than just those two words. But where to begin?

Justin has an unmatched talent for saying and showing how he feels. I, on the other hand, wonder every day if I'm doing enough to express how very much he means to me. It often feels like I'm playing catch-up, chasing helplessly after the standard he sets. And after tonight? After that incredibly heartfelt speech that somehow managed to eradicate all of my ridiculous anxieties about aging? How am I ever going to match that? I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying to recreate what he's given me tonight.

It's a big task, that's for sure, so I may as well get started now. I begin by saying, "I fucking love you so much. You have no idea. I love you. I  _love_ you. And as much as I've loved being your partner, I want you to be my husband."

_Husband._  As soon as I say it, his eyes light up. The smile that was tugging at his lips blossoms into a huge grin. Thank fuck. I have been wanting to say that for what seems like forever now. That's something else I never planned on, but here we are - I want him to be my husband. 

It's a word that used to hold nothing but negative connotations. It seemed assimilationist, defeatist, reeking of ridiculous normality and cloying co-dependence. More than anything, I remember my mother using the word ad nauseum. She would say it with a sense of worship she usually reserved for her religious fanaticism.  _Husband._ Husband with a capital H, as in, "This is my  _husband,_ Jack Kinney." She would announce this with great pride when they were playing pretend and presenting a united front out in public. They were picture perfect, attending social gatherings arm-in-arm, showing no signs of how much they fucking hated each other.

It was at home that they showed their true colours in all their hideous glory - fighting, screaming, circling each other, like two caged animals thirsting to devour each other. Claire and I would listen from whatever safe spaces we could find; when we were little, we holed up under her bed or in the crawl space behind the pantry, hand in hand. As we grew up and apart, we stuck to our separate quarters and tried to ignore the shouting and crashes, while my mother screeched, "What kind of husband are you?!" Then: "What kind of father are you? What kind of man?" All good questions, I'll give her that. But she may as well have been screaming at a brick wall. At least a brick wall wouldn't have retaliated. It wouldn't have left her hurt and broken, bruised and defeated. 

Then there was the way she spoke to us, me and Claire. Claire, who needed to find a good husband. Claire, who grew up with that and only that on her mind. Claire, who somehow managed to find herself someone almost exactly as shitty as our own father. Claire, who spat out two shitty kids who will probably grow up to be shitty husbands, thus perpetuating the grotesque cycle of toxic co-dependence our parents patented and perfected.

And then there was me being told, "You'll make a wonderful husband one day, Brian."

My mother said this often, like a mantra, like a life-raft she was clinging to. Like I would grow up and meet a girl and get married and be everything my father couldn't. Like I was the solution to her unfixable problems. She would say it over and over - pleading, praying, promising - without ever actually looking at me. Sure, sometimes she would grab my shoulders and look me in the eye and say (or slur) this ridiculous vow, but it always felt like she was looking right through me, not seeing my reluctance, my resistance, my repulsion. My mother has never really seen me for who I am. I didn't want to be anybody's wonderful husband. I didn't want to be the solution to her problems, the answer to her prayers. And I sure as fuck didn't want to turn into them, Jack and Joan Kinney, the most miserable people to ever exist, made even more miserable in their inescapable coexistence.

I briefly wonder what my mother would think if she could see me proposing to Justin. Then again, why bother wondering? It's perfectly fucking clear what she thinks of me. Her silence during the past six years speaks volumes. Justin asks sometimes if I'm okay, and I tell him that of course I fucking well am. This is the first time she's actually given me what I need. This silence is hugely fucking preferable to any more of her delusional diatribes about Christ's plan and what happens to sinning sinners like Justin and I. 

But this has nothing to do with my mother. I'm not kneeling in the street because of her or in spite of her. I'm kneeling in the street because of Justin. For Justin. For him and for me and for us.

I'm kneeling in the street because he has single-handedly given the word 'husband' new meaning. I hear it, I say it, and it doesn't remind me of my fucked up 'family' anymore. It reminds me of Justin and what our life could be. Instead of sounding like a trap or a falsehood, it's filled with promise. It's filled with images of him - my partner, my best friend, my real family. It's on the tip of my fucking tongue all the goddamned time lately; I often have to stop myself from saying, "This is my husband, Justin", because technically he's not. But fuck, do I want him to be. 

I want him to be because there's nobody better. Nobody else could even begin to compare to Justin. I remember when we first met and thinking he was beautiful, I remember getting to know him and believing him to be brave and bright and brilliant. Those words fit like a charm then, but seem wholly insufficient now. He is more beautiful, more brave, more bright, more brilliant, than I knew it was possible for a person to be. And just when I think I can't adore him any more, another day goes by and I adore him some more.

Since words escape me, what I'm left with is memories - fragments of recollections that spring to mind whenever I think of Justin. His smile, more than anything, and how fucking intoxicating it is. How I could quite happily drown in it. How he makes me laugh. How I make him laugh. The way he looks at me, like he really sees me, like he knows me in and out.

And then there's the language we've mastered - I still fight him when we accidentally talk in unison or when he finishes my sentences, but when we started wearing the rings we created a wordless language comprised solely of touch. He'll take my hand or I'll take his, and we'll run our fingers over each other's wedding bands, signalling to each other -  _let's get out of here, are you okay?, I love you, I need you, I'm yours._ When I'm without him, I'll look at my ring or touch it and be instantly reminded of what we have. I'll think of Justin in my arms, kissing me, touching me, loving me. I'll think of our apartment and how he turned it into our home, full of life and energy and warmth. Or our son and how Justin helped to turn us into a family, a real family, the kind of family I've always needed, deep down. Or tiny, silly things that I would never say out loud, like how much I love coming home and finding him dancing around the kitchen while he cooks; like the traces of paint I find all over him after he's been working, and how I enjoy going hunting for them; like the care I see him putting into everything, whether it's his work, or a gift for Gus, or Christmas cards for the family, or a letter to Daphne. All of these things and countless others - I see them, I search for them, and I fall in love with him over and over again.

I think of how well I know him, how there's an entire person who I've mapped out standing right in front of me... and I know him better than anyone. He's mine. I'm his. The thought of that used to terrify me, set me on edge; it made me feel vulnerable and I would resist it, resist him, resist us. I would fight it and leave us both wounded. Right now, I can't believe I ever bothered fighting this. Right now, I only feel safe. He's given me that. His words are echoing in my mind:  _I am always going to love you._  


I am always going to love him. I'll even love him if he says no to my proposal. It's sudden, after all, and I know Justin accepted long ago that we were going to be partners. I do wonder, very briefly, if this is actually what he wants. Maybe he is going to reject me. Maybe this still isn't right for us. Maybe 'partners' is enough for him and maybe he's not saying anything because he's trying to figure out how to refuse me without crushing me.

But then I see the smile on his face, the tears in his eyes. I feel his hands in mine and I run my thumb over his ring finger, touching the band of his ring. He does the same, circling my ring over and over, his smile growing until it's blindingly bright. He's not going to say no. He wants this as much as I do.

I say the words once more, and they feel so fucking _right_ : "Marry me?"

"Yes," Justin says, laughing ecstatically. "Yes, yes, yes,  _yes."_  


He tugs me to my feet and throws himself into my arms, gluing himself to me, crushing his lips to mine. Tears leak from his eyes, tracking down my cheeks. Or maybe I'm the one who's crying. It doesn't really matter. All that matter is how sure I feel of this, of him, of us. Justin kisses me and laughs, over and over, beautiful and brave and bright and brilliant - to say the very least. Through laughter and tears, he says it once more, and it feels so _goddamn right_ : "Yes!"  



	3. Justin

 

"Marry me."

 

The moment the words leave Brian's mouth, my heart stops. I swear, I feel it stutter in my chest, and  _stop._ I am standing in the street outside our apartment, with Brian Kinney kneeling in front of me proposing  _marriage,_ and my heart has stopped. 

 

Then I see the look on his face and my heart comes crashing back to life, thumping wildly, uncontrollably. I have  _never_  seen a look filled with so much love; not from Brian, not from anyone. I don't think I even knew that kind of love was even possible until this moment.

 

I'm so caught up in the unprecedented tenderness and adoration in his eyes that I almost forget his question. But then I feel the warmth of his hands holding mine and remember. He's asking me to marry him. Wait, is he? Dazed, I ask, "Wh- what?"

 

I'm sure he'll make fun of me for that later, but right now he just smiles and repeats himself: "Marry me."

 

Then he draws my left hand to his lips and kisses it. I'm struck for speech. I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat, because it's pummelling so hard I honestly think it's about to shatter through my goddamned chest.

 

"I fucking love you so much," is what he says next, and I don't just hear it, I  _feel it._ His words course through me like wildfire, and suddenly I'm ablaze. Brian must know the effect it has on me, because he grins and then confesses, "You have no idea. I love you. I  _love_  you. And as much as I've loved being your partner, I want you to be my husband."

 

My heart lurches at that word:  _husband._ Not just the word, not just the fact Brian is saying it, but the  _way_ he says it. Like he's hungry for it. Like he's been waiting and waiting to say it. Like he's ready to grasp at it with both hands. And that's what this is, isn't it? Brian Kinney is kneeling on the pavement in front of me, asking me to marry him. I am still utterly speechless, but I can feel a smile stretching across my face. I find myself imagining what it would be like:  _This is my husband, Brian._ My smile grows all the more.

 

Oh god, I didn't even realise this until right now, but I want this so much it hurts. Even with it right here in front of me, directly within my reach, it  _hurts_. So like I always do when I'm in pain, I look to Brian. The love in his gaze is like an embrace. Not only that, it's like a promise. He traces his finger over my ring, our private little language, and I do the same in return. He grins and asks again, "Marry me?"

 

The hope spilling from those words is infectious. This feels so right. I don't want to keep him waiting a moment longer. "Yes," I say, laughing, my voice cracking, "Yes, yes, yes,  _yes."_

 

I grasp his hands tightly and pull him to his feet, rushing to close what little distance remains between us. I crush my lips to his, pouring everything I have into the kiss. One of us is crying... or maybe it's both of us. I kiss him over and over again, my heart still drumming away, elation coursing through me. Ecstatic, I say it once more: "Yes!"

 

He laughs and hugs me, lifting me up off the ground in the process. He doesn't set me back down until he's finished kissing me so thoroughly that he's probably left bruises. I don't fucking care. All I can think is: _We're engaged. We're going to be married. Brian Kinney is going to be my husband._

 

It's been a long day. I'm surprised we're both still conscious after everything - the hours upon hours of fucking, all the running around the city, and the night spent dancing. If this were any other night, maybe we'd be ready to drop. But we're wide awake and I can't wait to get Brian - my  _fiance_ \- upstairs to continue the festivities. I grab a handful of his shirt and start dragging him towards the front door of our building. "Let's go celebrate."

 

*

 

Two hours and a hell of a lot of 'celebrating' later, and we've finally worn each other out. As we recover, Brian on his back and me on my side, I relax by watching the rise and fall of his chest. 

 

I never, ever,  _ever_ thought we would be back here again. When I moved to New York I pushed the thought of marriage out of my mind and as far away from our relationship as possible. At first, that seemed like a huge fucking mistake. While my days were spent in the art world - aiming to conquer it, fighting for it, working my fingers to the bone for it - my nights were spent missing Brian and beating myself up for leaving him back in Pittsburgh. Our phone calls and occasional visits weren't nearly enough. I wanted him near, I wanted him close, I wanted him all the time. On the loneliest nights, I even wished we'd just gotten married and moved out to the country.

 

And then he showed up. He moved to New York for me. Brian Kinney  _moved to New York for me._ Suddenly, Kinnetik had a Manhattan office and we were looking for an apartment together (after he so kindly deemed my studio 'an absolute shithole with less room than a fucking matchbox'), and Brian was near and close and mine all the time. Everything revolved around work and fucking. It was _perfect._  I became addicted to waking up next to him and hearing him tell me he loved me before he left for work, like it was the simplest thing in the world. It became so natural and inevitable that I began to forget that there was ever a time when Brian didn't say those three wonderful words.

 

Even more addictive was watching him work so hard at everything - at building his empire, at being a good dad to Gus. If we weren't working or fucking, he'd be on the phone to Gus asking him about his day, or dragging me around FAO Schwartz in search of the perfect gift for Gus, or sending Mel and Linz flight vouchers so they could come and visit. And visit they did, and Brian would turn his Super Dad dial up further and further with each arrival. At one point, during the second night of their third visit and halfway through Brian and Gus' fifth consecutive game of Chutes & Ladders, Mel pulled me aside to confide, "This is the best episode of  _Extreme Makeover_ that I've ever seen. Kudos, baby." Fuck, I wonder what she'll say when she hears about our engagement. Actually, I'm more interested in what Gus will say - especially after I put so much effort into convincing him Brian and I weren't destined for marriage. That'll be an interesting conversation to have.

 

I still remember the day Gus became mine. I still have the letter he sent me asking if I would be his dad. I'll always remember how happy he was when I said yes, how he screamed down the phone and said it was the best day of his life. That was when I thought I had it all - every last little thing I could ever want. 

 

Until now, of course. Of  _course_ Brian would have to prove me wrong. I'd thought being partners living together and conquering New York together and co-parenting the best kid in the world together was enough. I'd thought wearing the rings and having our secret little language was enough. I'd thought him reserving our bed for us and us alone was enough.

 

Now I'm lying next to him with images of him proposing with that  _look_ on his face, saying the word 'husband' like it was everything in the world to him. Now it's all I can think about. I want it more than anything... well, that's almost true. I want it more than anything, on one condition.

 

I reach out and trace the contour of his hip, all slippery with sweat. "Promise me something."

 

"Huh?" Brian spares a glance at me, frowning in bewilderment. "What was your name again?"

 

"You-" I tackle him. "You shit, Brian Kinney."

 

"Sorry, sorry," he says, the hint of a smirk twisting across his mouth. "It's Jason, right?"

 

"Fuck you!"

 

He laughs, fighting me off when I try to tickle him. "Hey, you're the one who fucked my brains out. Take some responsibility."

 

"Asshole." I kiss him soundly. "Are you listening?"

 

"Probably," he drawls, grinning evilly. 

 

"I want you to promise me something." I poke him pointedly and say, "It's important to me."

 

"Anything," he replies, all sincere and sweet again. 

 

"I don't want you thinking you have to change just because we're getting married. I want you," I say insistently, tracing a finger down his sweat-slicked chest. "Not some picture-book reinterpretation of Brian Kinney."

 

He smirks. "Fine by me, Sunshine."

 

"Good." I kiss him, running my hand through his hair. "Last time it was like... you'd torn half your pages out. Not that I didn't appreciate the effort, but I want you and _all_ of you. Not some bullshit censored version."

 

"I'm all yours," he promises, his eyes falling shut. It's really late. Or really, really early, I suppose. I think, momentarily, about telling how I never thought we would be back here again, but we're not really 'back' anywhere. Wherever we are now feels completely different. It's not like last time at all.

 

So I just tell him I love him, and lie down beside him. He stretches out languidly, smiling to himself, then curls an arm around me. I tug the blanket over us and close my eyes. My last thought - my only thought - is of that look he had when he proposed. It was like every single kiss, every single fuck, every single 'I love you' he's ever uttered all rolled into one. It was perfect. 

 

*

 

It doesn't ever take much sleep for Brian to recuperate. He wakes me up impossibly early and quickly puts a stop to any desire I might have to complain by scooping me up and hauling me into the shower. The celebrations continue, and continue, and continue. In the shower, in the kitchen after (or halfway through and on top of) our breakfast, all over the apartment, until we find ourselves back in bed again.

 

Normally after this much fucking, my brain would have turned to mush, but today it's working overtime as I consider our engagement. Maybe I'm building up an immunity or a tolerance or something. Maybe I should tell Brian that and see how he reacts. That would be fun. That would be a _lot_ of fun.

 

But first things first: "I have an idea."

 

"You are just full of good ideas this morning," Brian laughs, sliding a third finger inside me. I groan, arching my back as he teases, thrusting his fingers in and out at an excruciatingly slow pace. "You also, uh, missed a spot."

 

He gestures to my mouth. I lick my lower lip, catching the last drop of come and swallowing it with a satisfied smile. Brian growls at me. He twists his fingers deliciously, biting his lip as I moan.

 

"So what's this idea?"

 

"Hmmm?"

 

"If you can't concentrate-" he makes like he's going to stop. 

 

"Don't," I insist. "Don't stop. I can concentrate."

 

Sort of. Kind of. Okay, not really, not when he's grasping my cock with with one hand and exploring me so thoroughly with the other. Brian laughs, low and rough, and murmurs, "Liar."

 

"Tease," I retort, my vision swimming as he bites the inside of my thigh.

 

"Why don't you hold that thought?" He suggests, not even waiting to hear my response before he crooks his fingers,  _oh god,_  swallows my cock,  _oh fuck,_ and-  _sweet fucking fuck._ I actually lose it right then and there, impaled on three of his fingers, his other hand clamped possesively on my thigh, his tongue swirling around my cock urgently. I come and come _hard_ , shouting his name. 

 

For several long moments afterwards, everything blurs and fades away. I have some vague sense of Brian gripping my hips and kissing his way up from my softening cock, over my stomach and chest, right to my collarbone. Then he kisses the hollow of my throat and nuzzles my neck. "So... you were saying?"

 

I was saying something, wasn't I? "Right. My idea."

 

I hear how spacy I sound and burst out laughing just as Brian does. He teases, like the smug bastard he is, "Do you need a moment to collect yourself, Sunshine?"

 

I roll my eyes at him and his inimitable sense of self-satisfaction, but I don't actually bother denying it. As I gather myself, Brian runs his hand up and down my thigh, moving his fingers further inwards with each stroke. I warn him with a chuckle, "That's actually only steering me further off course."

 

He grins and removes his hand. I take a deep breath, finally feeling capable of processing my thoughts into words, and say, "What if we skipped the wedding?"

 

Brian arches an eyebrow at me curiously, and says, "I'm listening."

 

I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow. Brian cups his hand over my hip, stroking it gently, as I explain, "I guess I don't feel like a wedding is really 'us'. I don't know why I thought it was last time. I was thinking maybe we should just skip it... if that's okay with you, of course. What do you think?"

 

I wonder, for a moment, if the Brian Kinney who suddenly got down on his knees and proposed to me last night has also acquired a taste for other traditions. Maybe he has a vision of us tying the knot in white tuxes at the Plaza, or something equally cliché. Maybe he's been dreaming of floral arrangements and registering at Barney's. But then Brian smiles and says with relief, "I think you read my mind, Sunshine."

 

I grin. "That's what couples do."

 

Brian rolls his eyes. "Must we?"

 

"Well, we are going to be  _hubbies."_

 

"Don't you ever," he wrestles me onto my back and pins me down, both of us laughing, " _Ever_ call me your 'hubby'. Don't you dare."

 

He's watching me with a dark gaze, which I'm sure is meant to warn me... but it only tempts me. I grin at him and whisper, "Hubby."

 

He narrows his eyes. "The engagement's off. I rescind my proposal."

 

"No you don't!" I swat his arm. "You haven't even heard my brilliant plan yet."

 

"And what's that?"

 

I beam at him, hoping very much to sell this idea: "Wouldn't it be fun to elope?"

 

Brian frowns at me. After a long pause, he sighs, "I can't decide whether to praise you for being a goddamned genius or punish you for reading my mind again."

 

"How about you praise me now," I suggest, then add in a sultry whisper, "And punish me later?"

 

"Trying to make an honest man out of you is a lost cause," he chuckles, then says, punctuating each word with a kiss, "You filthy little  _slut."_

 

"Being an honest man sounds boring as shit." I run my hand down his chest. "I'd much rather be your dirty, naughty little-"

 

He crushes his mouth to mine, tangling a hand in my hair and pressing me into the mattress. After one very long, intense kiss, he says, "That was your praise. I  _will_ get around to punishing you later, you deviant."

 

"People in glass houses shouldn't throw anvils," I tease. 

 

Brian smirks. "So we're eloping, are we?"

 

"Do you want to?"

 

"Fuck, yes." He sighs contentedly. "Weddings are bullshit."

 

"Exactly. Let's cut out all that hassle and just do what matters most - get married. In our own way. You, me, city hall - how does that sound?" I smile as his expression softens, his eyes lighting with affection. Then a slight problem occurs to me: "People will be pissed, though."

 

"Fuck 'em," Brian shakes his head dismissively. "It's not about them. I'd rather it just be us."

 

"Did you know last time they were taking bets on how long we'd last? Daph said they were pretty much all gossiping about what I must have said or done to get you to propose..."

 

I cringe. My good mood takes a nasty hit. Brian notices and cups my face in his hand. "Who the fuck cares what they think?"

 

"I don't," I say, "But I did then. Even before Daph told me, I knew they were saying shit like that. I knew they were probably betting on it, too."

 

"Fuck. Them." Brian's gaze turns fierce. "This has nothing to do with them. It didn't then, it doesn't now."

 

"Yeah." I lean in to his touch and he drags his thumb along my jawline, his eyes following the movement. "If we're going to do this, I want it to be about the two of us. As we are, not as we're expected to be."

 

"Agreed."

 

"Okay, so here's what I was thinking - we apply for the license tomorrow, get married on Tuesday, then get the hell out of dodge until Saturday. We could go honeymooning somewhere."

 

"So you're not forgoing tradition completely."

 

"Um, honeymoons are sex and travel... that's obviously a tradition I can get behind," I say. As I predicted he would, Brian nods approvingly. "What do you think? We could go to the courthouse first thing Tuesday and then fly somewhere fun. As long as we're back by Saturday morning we'll be okay."

 

"Saturday?"

 

"Not to spoil the mood... but Saturday is your birthday. Your actual birthday with your son."

 

"Our son," he corrects idly.

 

"Our son," I happily amend. "But they don't fly in until early afternoon. That'll give us plenty of time to get home and get sorted. Doesn't that sound nice? Doing it right now?"

 

Brian hums approvingly. I touch his chest, circling my fingertips over his heartbeat, and admit, "I... I don't want to wait. I want you to be my husband now, not in six months' or a year's time."

 

"Me too," he bumps his nose against mine and kisses me.

 

" _And_  I don't see the point of some huge elaborate ceremony when all that really matters is being with you." I shake my head. "Plus the wedding industry is just vile, I mean  _really,_ why go pumping more money into a corrupt, overrated empire as though that's any way for us to prove our love for each other?"

 

Brian grins. "I've taught you well, Sunshine."

 

"You certainly have." I kiss him again. "All I want is to be with you and be your husband. It should just be about us, and we don't need bouquets or centerpieces or any of that shit. We already have what really matters."

 

"That we do," he says, "That-"

 

"-we do," I finish, grinning at him mischievously. 

 

"Oh, will you look at that," Brian drawls, glancing at the clock. He arches his eyebrow at me and growls, "It's time for your punishment."

 

He leaps out of bed, probably to find something to tie me up with. When he returns with one of his ties, Brian warns, "You'd better ready yourself, Sunshine." 

 

I grin all the more and purr, "Sure thing,  _hubby."_

 

With a deliciously ferocious look and a rough growl, he pounces.


	4. Justin

"Brian Kinney, get your ass out of bed!"

 

"Funny you should mention that," he says, rolling over to lounge on his side. "I was just going to tell you to get back in."

 

"Fat chance," I pick up his clothes and throw them at him. "Get dressed. It's bachelor party time. We are going out and you are going to act like the filthy, pervy reprobate I fell in love with. Not like the sissy you were being last time."

 

His eyes narrow. "I was being a  _sissy,_ was I?" 

 

I cross my arms and pin him with a judgmental stare. "A sissy and an absolute pussy."

 

As I predicted it would, this sends him lunging out of bed. He backs me up against the wall and plants his hands on either side of my head. I lift my chin and meet his fiery gaze defiantly. "While you've been lazing around in bed getting all moony-eyed about our impending nuptials, I've been working my ass off to plan the perfect night on the town. This is non-negotiable. Get. Dressed."

 

"Maybe you should include that in your vows," he smirks, " _I, Justin Taylor, take you, moon-eyed sissy, to be my lawfully wedded pussy husband."_

 

"I guess we'll have to see how you go tonight," I tease. "Now, are you going to puss out again or are you going to man up?"

 

"Oh, I'll man up alright," Brian says, eyes glittering dangerously. "I just hope you're ready, Sunshine."

 

"As I'll ever be."

 

*

 

The next morning, I wake to a shrieking alarm clock and a colossal headache. What the fuck was I thinking planning an impromptu bachelor party the night before our wedding? Why did I rile Brian up? Was I suffering some temporary form of insanity? The intense combination of my overly ambitious planning and the determination I provoked in Brian to out-Kinney himself have seriously done me in.

 

Somehow, Brian is already up, leaving me to defend myself against the violent shrill of the alarm clock. It takes four attempts to grab it and another two to silence it. I have just decided to beg for an extra hour (or three) of sleep and have commenced rehearsing my speech/plea, when Brian appears with two steaming mugs of coffee, a tall glass of water, and a generous dose of aspirin. I practically inhale the aspirin and drain the glass of water in one go.

 

"I love you," I groan gratefully, feeling instant relief.

 

"Drink up," he orders, handing me my coffee. "We need to leave in an hour."

 

I take a gulp of coffee and sidle up close to him as he gets back into bed. Brian kisses my forehead and wraps an arm around my shoulders. After we've finished our coffee in blessed silence, I wriggle out of his embrace and reach for his feet.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

I grin at him. "Checking their temperature. They don't  _feel_ cold."

 

He kicks at me. "That's because they're not, you little shit. How are yours?"

 

"Toasty warm." I lean in close for a kiss. Brian pecks me -  _pecks_ me - and I have to admonish him, "Is that any way to kiss your future husband?"

 

"You'll get a proper kiss when you're ready," he says authoritatively. "Go and get in the shower. Your suit's waiting in there for you. We're leaving in fifty minutes, Sunshine."

 

With my headache fading and my excitement growing, I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom. "You're not going to join me?"

 

"I'm already showered. Don't try and distract me," he warns. "Fifty minutes and we're out that door, you hear me?"

 

I beam at him. "Can't wait."

 

*

 

"We're the only fags here," Brian whispers, eyeing the other couples with no small amount of distaste.

 

"That's certainly a change of scenery after last night," I whisper back, nudging him. "So many different varieties, too - strippers and hustlers and tricks!"

 

"Oh, my!" Brian adds sardonically. He arches an eyebrow at me. "You weren't disappointed, then?"

 

"Not a bit," I smile. "I was impressed, actually. My expectations were actually exceeded, which is quite a feat after all these years."

 

"So you'll be dropping the 'sissy' and 'pussy' from your vows?"

 

"Absolutely," I kiss him. "You earned it. I'll keep the 'moon-eyed', though. Just look at you!"

 

Brian smiles, a hint of a blush colouring his cheeks. "You look exquisite."

 

" _Exquisite,"_ I repeat, grinning. "You normally reserve that word for Daphne."

 

"Yeah, well," he looks at me, eyes roaming over me appreciatively, and echoes my earlier sentiment: "You earned it."

 

Looping my arm through his, I kiss his shoulder. Brian touches my hair gently, his fingertips skimming from around my temple to the nape of my neck. He's been doing that all morning, ever since I walked out of the bathroom, all ready except for my tie. Brian did a double take when he saw me, making me wonder if I looked alright or not. I asked him, and he said,  _I haven't seen you do your hair like that since prom._

 

Knowing how sensitive he still is about that night, I offered to change it. He shook his head and insisted,  _no, you look perfect._ Then he ran his fingers through it gently, smoothed it once, twice, then helped me tie my tie. Upon realising his hands were shaking a little, I grasped his wrists and kissed his knuckles, his ring finger, the heart of his palm.

 

I do the same now, then clasp his hands in mine and hold them tight. He rubs a finger over my wedding ring; a silent  _I love you._ I return the gesture and watch a smile blossom on his face.

 

I glance around the city clerk's office, where we're joined by a smattering of other couples. There are couples in full formal wear and couples dressed like it's any other day. A few are alone, like Brian and I, and others are joined by their friends and families. Everyone looks so fucking happy - although none quite as happy as Brian and me, if I don't mind saying so myself. 

 

"We're not just the only fags here; we're also the cutest couple," I whisper in his ear. "Do you think they give out a prize for that?"

 

"They ought to."

 

As Brian strokes the inside of my wrist, I lean into him and ask, "Do you think Gus will ever forgive us for this?"

 

We've talked about this, mostly in circles, and have not yet been able to resolve it. There's an appeal to having this day to ourselves, one which is thrilling and satisfying. But what about Gus?

 

"He's a good kid," Brian says, with a slight grimace. "He'll get over it."

 

He then looks at me as though he's seeking confirmation. I smile at him, kiss his cheek, and agree, "He'll be pissed as hell, he'll kick our asses, but he'll get over it. Besides, we'll make it up to him."

 

Another pair of names get called and the couple sitting next to us stand up. I nudge Brian. "Not long now."

 

He touches my tie, smoothing the blue silk between his thumb and forefinger. "It was fun."

 

"What was?"

 

"Being your partner," his lips quirk in a slight smile. After a long moment of contemplative silence, he says, "I loved every minute."

 

"Me too," I whisper. "And I'll enjoy the last few that we have left, too. You were a great partner, Brian Kinney."

 

"I'll be an even better husband." He turns to me with sharp eyes and a serious gaze. "I promise."

 

"You'll be an _amazing_ husband," I predict, with great confidence. Brian grins. "I promise I will be too."

 

Then I press my lips to his ear and whisper very softly, "And I _swear,_ I'll still blow you _all_ the time."

 

He almost bursts out laughing, but stifles it by kissing me soundly.

 

Then they call our names. A rush of excitement courses through me. Brian stands up and holds out his hand to me. "Ready?"

 

I look up at him and wonder for a moment at where we are. What was it - over a decade ago that we first met? That night, the two of us standing together on Liberty Ave., it seems like a century ago. He was a total stranger then, someone who seemed so exciting and full of promise. Now, eleven years later, Brian is so well known to me that I could set my watch by him, but somehow he's more exciting and more full of promise than ever before.

 

I grasp his hand and let him pull me to my feet. "Ready."

 

*

 

Cynthia, I have decided, is not only a miracle-worker, but my heroine and someone I probably owe my life to. It's one thing to master the complicated art of working with Brian Kinney, it's quite another to plan a honeymoon with less than twenty-four hours notice. But Cynthia has taken the impossible task we set her and made it seem like child's play.

 

Yesterday when we left City Hall, there was a car waiting for us to take us to the airport, all ready to go with luggage and our itinerary. We'd left it up to her to choose our destination -  _somewhere exciting,_ Brian said;  _somewhere romantic,_ I said - and she managed to cater to both. We're in Vegas now, and we'll be in San Francisco tomorrow. 

 

We haven't exactly seen much of Vegas so far. There were brief glimpses of the strip all lit up as we drove in last night, but that was in between some  _very_ distracting kisses. Then we spent the entire night holed up in our suite, drinking and dancing and fucking. Maybe tonight we'll get to go out and explore - I plan to suggest to Brian that we spend the day in bed and the night on the town, but he's still asleep. I'll have to wait to find out what he thinks, but my guess is he'll be receptive to those plans. Especially if I wake him up in a while with a blow job.

 

But it's still early and I don't want to disturb him just yet, so I slip out of bed and tiptoe out to the balcony with my phone in hand. After texting Cynthia to let her know she's my heroine, I call Daphne - my very first heroine and the person I've been absolutely dying to speak to. Since Saturday night, my thoughts have revolved primarily around five things:

 

_1\. Holy shit, Brian fucking proposed to me._

_2\. We're fucking engaged!_

_3\. We're going to be married!!!_

_4\. Brian Kinney is going to be my **husband.**_

_5\. I need to tell Daph, I need to tell Daph, **I need to tell Daph.**_

 

So as Brian sleeps peacefully, I slip out onto the balcony and call Daph. She picks up on the second ring.

 

"Justin!" Daphne sounds ecstatic. "I was just wondering how you were."

 

"Hey, Daph." I lean over the balcony. There's traffic rushing along the strip and a growing crowd of tourists swarming below. "How's things?"

 

"Good," she enthuses, "I have the morning off from work. I had a major, much-needed sleep in and now I'm having brunch in bed. You?"

 

"Not much," I say, smiling to myself. "I just woke up, too. Brian and I had a pretty epic night last night."

 

"Details, please!"

 

I rifle through my pockets for my smokes and lighter. "How much detail do you want?" 

 

"Um, let's say... a generous amount. Not too little, but not as much as that time you spent twenty minutes describing a rim job in incredibly minute detail." She laughs. "I do have to leave for work by noon, you know."

 

"Fair enough," I say, taking a drag from my cigarette.

 

" _Justin Taylor_ , are you  _smoking?!"_

 

"No," I lie pitifully. Maybe it would come across more convincingly if I weren't halfway through exhaling. 

 

"You're so gross," she huffs, as I puff. "You told me you were going to quit!"

 

"I am going to quit. Soon. Really soon," I take another drag. Daphne grumbles down the phone at me. "I swear I will. I promised Bri I'd get clean."

 

Daph sounds fittingly disbelieving as she asks, " _Brian_  wants you clean?" 

 

"Well, clean as in  _not smoking_ clean. And  _not smoking_ as in  _not smoking tobacco."_

 

She laughs softly and I'm sure she's shaking her head. "But I suppose weed is still A-okay, huh?"

 

"Yeah," I chuckle. "We're married, not dead."

 

There's an incredibly long pause where all I can hear is the rush of traffic along the strip and the slight crackle of the phone line. Then Daphne says, slowly, "You're  _what?"_

 

"We're married."

 

" _What?!"_

 

"We got married," I say, smiling so hard it hurts. "We got married yesterday morning."

 

"Oh my god," Daphne says, then shrieks, "Oh my  _god!_ Are you serious?!"

 

"Completely."

 

" _Oh my god!"_ Daph squeals. "Congratulations! Oh my god, I'm so happy for you. For both of you. Oh, god, you are such a shit for telling me like that. But I'm so happy for you! Okay, you need to start at the beginning. I mean, I'm guessing you didn't wake up yesterday morning and just stroll on down to a chapel because the mood struck."

 

"No," I laugh. "Jeez, can you picture the two of us going into a chapel? We'd probably start sizzling from three blocks away!"

 

"Please, try five blocks at least," she teases. "Seriously, though - when did you decide to do this?"

 

 

"Honestly, it was kind of sudden. Brian only proposed on Saturday."

 

" _Brian proposed?_ Okay, details. Details, details, details. And  _all_ of them - even more detail than the unforgettably, incredibly detailed rim job recount of 2006. Wait! Where's Brian?"

 

"He's still sleeping." I glance through the curtains at him. He's still sprawled across the bed, fast asleep. "Last night was wild. We're in Vegas."

 

"You're in...? Okay. Okay. Go back to the start. Go back to Saturday."

 

"Well, we were celebrating his birthday," I begin. I tell her everything - about the day we spent together, how Brian was throwing a massive tantrum about his fortieth, how I poured my heart out to him, and how he then dropped to his knees and proposed. She gasps when she hears that. I grin. "Daph, you should have seen the way he was looking at me. I've never seen anything like it. I swear, I've been in love with him for over a decade, I love him more and more all the time, but when he looked at me like that... it was like falling all over again. Even harder than I did that first night. It was like plummeting, really, and I haven't stopped yet. I feel dizzy just thinking about it."

 

"Justin," she sighs dreamily, a slight tremor in her voice, like she's getting teary. 

 

"Don't cry," I insist. 

 

"I'm  _not,"_ she lies, even more pathetically than when I tried to lie about the smoking. "It just all sounds so romantic!"

 

"It was. And that's not even the half of it," I say. She begs me for the rest of the story and I tell her about our post-engagement fuckfest, about going to get the marriage license, about our wilder-than-wild last minute bachelor party. I admit it's an abridged version, and Daph insists on hearing the full, unabbreviated tale when we see each other next. I promise her that she'll get to hear every last itty bitty little detail; but for now, I stick to the essentials. "And then... we got married yesterday. We went to City Hall. It was really easy, we only had to wait while four other couples got married, and then we got called up."

 

"Did you say vows?"

 

"Just simple ones. They were our own. It was really quick, like, two minutes." I smile to myself. "And it was perfect."

 

"You didn't want something bigger?" She laughs and teases, "You were such a borderline Bridezilla last time."

 

"Fuck off! I was not." I take another drag of my cigarette, ignoring Daph's pointed sigh. "I don't know... I got too caught up in all of that shit last time. A big fancy wedding wouldn't have suited us."

 

I think back to Ted and Blake's wedding years ago, or at least what I can remember of it. I remember the ceremony perfectly; the white roses, the candles, the teary vows, and Gus and J.R. glowing with pride after completing their respective duties as ring bearer and flower girl. The reception is admittedly a blur; I remember there was an open bar and that Brian and I took full advantage of it. I remember shots and lots of them, because happy though we may have been for Ted and Blake, the only way we could tolerate all the festivities was to create an elaborate drinking game. The rules were certainly extensive; they ranged from the typical ( _drink if the DJ plays a clichéd wedding song; drink if a speech-giver quotes from Corinthians)_ to the not so typical ( _drink twice if anyone comments on our broken engagement or speculates on our future marital status)_ and, more often than not, were extremely judgmental ( _drink thrice if other couples are essentially re-enacting Hallmark commercials)._

 

Then there was Emmett and Drew's week-long location wedding extravaganza. It was the ultimate wedding, planned to perfection by Emmett himself. Even though Brian and I spent a good chunk of it mocking the grandiose proceedings, it was honestly one of the best weeks of my life. I'm sure Brian agrees, though I doubt he'll admit it. Sure, it was ridiculously lavish and utterly syrupy-sweet, but we got to spend a whole week in Hawaii with our family. Most of that was spent adventuring with Gus or lazing on the beach. And thankfully, Emmett expressly forbade the DJ from playing any clichéd wedding anthems at the reception, so there was an abundance of good music for Brian and I to dance to. We spent almost the entire reception on the dancefloor, outlasting all the other guests and mostly existing in a world of our own - except for when Gus insisted on cutting in, a request we happily obliged.

 

I know Ted and Blake and Emmett and Drew all loved their weddings and treasure them to this day. Hell, I treasure them, too. Despite all the scorn Brian and I heaped on them at the time, they were lovely. Ted and Blake's was romantic and incredibly moving. Emmett and Drew's was dazzling and dynamic. In comparison, our brief ceremony at the clerk's office might almost seem... tame. Even plain, perhaps. But it wasn't. It was incredible. There weren't any flowers or chandeliers in the room, we didn't have a string quartet or a harpist, and there wasn't a dancefloor; it was just the two of us in our best suits, hand in hand, repeating vows provided to us, smiling giddily as we were pronounced husbands. It's just like I told Brian - we already have what really matters. All I needed was him and the scarce few minutes it took for us to go from  _partners_ to  _husbands._ It was simple, it was quick, and it was  _perfect._

 

By the time I've finished telling Daph all of this, she's weeping down the phone. I'm not far from tears myself, but I swallow the lump in my throat and continue, "And then we were married. It was so strange, Daph - I felt like my legs were going to go out from under me. It's this bit of paper, and it's a different word for what we mean to each other, but... but it means so much I can't even put it into words."

 

"I'll let that slide for now, but I expect you to be able to verbalise when I see you next," she says, in a mock serious voice. 

 

"It'll probably be really goopy," I warn her.

 

"Please, you know I love the goopy!" Daph giggles. "Go on and goop it up."

 

"Okay, I will. Oh, and you can't tell anyone," I warn her. "Nobody else knows. Okay, Cynthia knows, because she organised Brian's time off and booked our honeymoon. But you're the only person I've told so far."

 

"Really?"

 

"Who else would I want to tell first? You always believed in us." I extinguish my cigarette, crumbling the tiny little stub into nothing under my thumb. "Maybe I wouldn't have even met Brian if it weren't for you. You supported me, you helped me sneak around, you covered for me... and that's just for starters. You were always there for me, Daph. I love you so much."

 

"I love you too." She sniffles. "I always knew you two would make it."

 

"You have no idea how much that means to me," I say, the lump making a forceful reappearance in my throat. "Apparently I'm having a lot of trouble putting shit into words today."

 

"Don't worry about it."

 

"Also," I add urgently, "You should know you've been given a lot of details nobody else will _ever_ get to hear. A  _lot_ of this goes in the vault, okay? We can't have word getting out about how romantic Brian is. He'd absolutely flip."

 

Daph snorts and scoffs, "Like it's some big secret!"

 

"It  _is!_ You're literally the only person who knows the full story."

 

"Well, it's an honour and a privilege. I'll happily guard Brian's secret romantic identity with my life."

 

I glance back at him; Brian Kinney, total romantic, and  _my_ _husband._ My heart swelling with affection, I watch him rouse, roll over, and fall back to sleep with a contented look on his face.  

 

"Although it's not all  _that_ secret," Daph muses. "Our entire graduating class had front row seats to Brian's romantic tendencies."

 

I swear, I can  _hear_ her grinning. It makes me break out smiling. Daph's heartfelt nostalgia for prom night almost makes up for how little of it I can remember. I sit down on the balcony floor, drawing my knees to my chest. With my gaze set on Brian dozing in bed, his wedding ring glinting in the bright morning light, I ask her softly, "Tell me the story again."

 

"Well," she says, her voice warm and bubbling with enthusiasm. Fuck, do I miss her. "We were dancing, when all of a sudden, in walks Brian..."

 

I've heard her tell the story a thousand times before; the way she tells it, it's like a perfect fairy-tale. Every time I hear it, without fail, I get swept up in it. Little flashes, brief glimpses, fragmented memories come back to me - Brian's left hand woven through mine, his right placed firmly on my back, his gaze bright and spirited as we moved together. In between these slivers of memory, I watch Brian's chest rise and fall, his fingers curling around my pillow as he sleeps.

 

I wonder if our prom night selves would ever have predicted this - that after all these years, we'd still be together, that we'd be  _married._ I think if my eighteen-year-old self could see where I am now, he'd absolutely lose his mind with joy. I wonder what thirty-year-old Brian would think. I hope he'd be happy for us. I know this Brian, my Brian, my just-shy-of-forty Brian is utterly ecstatic.

 

When Daph gets to the part where Brian kissed me on the dancefloor, I don't remember that kiss; instead, I think of how he kissed me when we were pronounced husbands - his arms knotting around my waist, mine looping around his neck, our mouths clashing together passionately. It has always pained me that I can't remember more of our night together at prom, but now I have something that well and truly makes up for that.

 

As Daph wraps up, I tell her I love her and promise we'll see each other again soon. She congratulates us again and tells me to give Brian a hug from her. We both get choked up as we say our goodbyes. Then, once we've hung up, I pick myself up and go back inside. I turn off my phone, close the balcony door, check that the Do Not Disturb sign is still securely in place, and shut out the rest of the world before I go and join my husband in bed.


	5. Brian

  
"You, me, Gus, Linds, and Mel." 

"Huh?" Justin pulls his head out of the fridge and frowns at me. 

"You, me, Gus, Linds, and Mel," I repeat. "How many does that make?" 

"Um, five," he laughs. "Is your brain still honeymooning somewhere?" 

"No, I'm just confused as to why there's enough food here to feed a platoon." I heft up the shopping bags, amazed by their weight. "This could feed the five of us for a month. They're only here for a week." 

Justin averts his gaze, chewing on his lower lip. "Um..." 

"What?" 

"That's not for the week, that's for tonight," he admits, a little guiltily, then protests, "It's a special dinner! And you know that mom and Deb taught me to cook - their recipes are designed to feed entire fleets." 

"Whatever you say, Sunshine." I start unpacking the bags. "Anything you want me to leave out?" 

"Just the veggies for now," Justin says, watching me intently. As soon as I take notice, he looks away. 

This continues as I help him put away the groceries; he stares at me, I look at him, he looks away and feigns innocence. After about the millionth time, I finally demand, "What?"

"Nothing." 

"You keep staring at me." 

"No, I don't." 

I stop putting the groceries away and fold my arms across my chest, fixing him with a knowing stare. "Lying already, Sunshine? Is that any way to begin married life?" 

Justin smiles and grabs my t-shirt, tugging me close so he can kiss me. Then he admits hesitantly, "I was just wondering how you're taking it. I wasn't sure whether I should bring it up or not." 

"Taking what?" 

In a dramatically hushed tone, he says, "Your fortieth. The dreaded day is upon us. How are you feeling?" 

I shrug. "I feel fine." 

"Fine?" As he echoes the word, it oozes disbelief. 

As Justin leans against the kitchen counter, staring at me suspiciously, I grab the last bag of groceries and start unpacking them. "Why wouldn't I be fine?" 

"Brian," Justin says tersely, raising both eyebrows at me, "Are you serious? This time last week you expressly told me to hide all the sharp objects in our apartment lest you end up 'slitting your withered, forty year old wrists'. That's a direct quote, as I'm sure you'll recall." 

Shrugging again, I concede, "Perhaps I was being a tad melodramatic." 

" _Perhaps_ you were being a  _tad_ melodramatic? After you told me to hide all the sharp stuff, you literally said, 'Of course, I could still hurl my aged body out the window and end it all that way - if I still have the energy, that is'." Justin shakes his head at me. "You were being ridiculously melodramatic! And a huge pain in my ass... and not in the good way." 

"We should remedy that," I say, snaking an arm around his waist. Justin laughs and squirms free. 

"Gus is going to be here any minute! We need to child-proof." 

"He's eleven! What the hell needs to be chi-" Justin opens a kitchen drawer and pulls out a handful of condoms. "Oh." 

"Yeah," he tosses them at me. "Unless you want to explain those to Gus, go and put them away somewhere safe." 

"His mommies started talking to him about sex, remember? He knows what they are." 

"Yeah, I remember they said they covered  _condoms,_ I don't remember any discussion of," he opens another drawer and pulls out another handful, flicking through them, "Textured condoms, flavoured condoms, or fire and ice condoms. Do you want to explain any of the above to him? Or why they're in the kitchen?" 

"Why should I be the one doing the explaining?" I grab him and maneuver him until he's pressed between me and the counter. "You bought them. You stashed them in the kitchen." 

"Prove it," he grins fiendishly. "Mel and Linds would never believe you." 

"Asshole." I take the rest of the condoms from him and go and stash them in our bedroom.  

"Check the bathrooms!" Justin calls. I forage through both of them carefully and remove all of our questionable bathroom accessories. Gus hasn't visited in a while, so our standards have slipped somewhat. By the time I've finished double-checking the rest of the rooms, I've probably spent more time 'child-proofing' than I did when Gus was still a baby. I return to the kitchen and give Justin the all-clear. 

"Kitchen's clear," he confirms in return, then he leans on the counter and regards me curiously. "So what changed your mind?" 

"About what?" 

"Um, the whole mental breakdown you were supposed to be having today." 

"I rescheduled. Forty's not a big deal," I grab his hand and bring it to my mouth, kissing it softly. "Let's leave the mental breakdown until my fiftieth. If you're really lucky, I might even leave it until my sixtieth." 

He seems impressed at that. "I guess that buys me some time to come up with another speech." 

"It'll be hard to top your last," I say, squeezing his hand. Warmth envelops me just at the thought of his heartfelt speech. "You have no idea how much that meant." 

"I have some idea," Justin snarks, smirking at me. "You  _proposed,_ Brian." 

I nod in concession. Justin's smirk turns into a tender smile. " _You_  have no idea how much that meant to  _me_." 

"I have some idea," I grin. "You said yes, after all. Four or five times, I believe. And you were stuttering and crying and generally giving me a run for my money in the melodrama department." 

"Fuck  _off,"_ Justin laughs, slapping my arm. I'm about to grab him and reel him in for a kiss when there's frantic knocking at the door. Justin smiles. "Are you ready for an onslaught of birthday activities? He has the entire week planned out." 

"Ready as I'll ever be."  

Justin goes and answers the door. Gus freezes, fist poised to continue his excited knocking, and smiles up at Justin. He caves into Justin's embrace, blinking tiredly. "Hey, Jus." 

"Hey, Gussy. Long day?" Justin steers Gus into the apartment, letting Mel and Linds in. 

"Mmm hmm," Gus yawns. He peers over at me and offers me a sleepy smile. "Happy birthday, Dad!" 

"Thanks, kiddo," I say, just as Linds grabs me in a big hug. Gus lets out another huge yawn. 

Mel mouths 'bed' at Justin over Gus' head. Justin nods and guides Gus down the hallway, suggesting, "How about I help you unpack, kiddo?"

As soon as they're out of earshot, Mel sighs. "He had a sleep over last night, a soccer game this morning, and then he was all energy in the airport and during the flight. He's beat." 

"And so are you," Linds says gently. "Why don't you go lie down, too? I'll come and wake you when it's time for dinner." 

"Sounds good." Mel kisses Linds and smiles at me. "See you two in a bit. Happy birthday, Bri." 

"Thanks."  

Linds grins at me. "Those two might be down for the count, but I'm certainly not. I hear Central Park calling my name." 

"Could you pick anywhere more predictable?" 

Linds pauses pensively, then suggests cunningly, "Times Square." 

"Central Park it is." I grab my coat and put it on. She's still watching me curiously, with an expression that mirrors Justin's from earlier. I suspect my birthday is on her mind. "Don't worry, I won't throw myself in the duck pond or into the path of oncoming cyclists. It's just a birthday." 

Linds' eyes widen. "That's... absolutely right. It is just a birthday." 

"And it's going to be a good one at that," I say, mostly just to see her jaw drop, which it does. I grin. "Let's go." 

*

"Something's different," Linds observes, peering at me suspiciously. "It's not just your newly blasé attitude towards your birthday. Something's up."

"Maybe it's that I'm having to judge you more than usual," I suggest, nodding to the stash of soft pretzels and cupcakes sitting between us on the bench. "It would have been cheaper for me to write TOURIST on your forehead."

"Shut up," she laughs. "And no, it's not that. It's something else. You and Justin seem different."

"Different how?" 

"I don't know," Linds frowns. "I noticed it when we arrived. You both looked... I honestly don't know how to put it into words. Is everything alright with you two?"

"Everything's perfect," I say, smiling. She points at me accusingly. 

"There," she exclaims. "Right there! You look different." 

"Well, I have officially entered my forties-" 

"No, it's not that." She hums thoughtfully. "Something's changed. Has something changed?" 

I nod and scoop some frosting off her cupcake. She slaps my arm. "Hey! Want me to write TOURIST on your forehead, Kinney?" 

"It's my birthday." I lick the frosting from my finger. "What's a birthday without a free pass?" 

Linds laughs. "Okay, fine, but... I feel like you're trying to distract me." 

"I'm not. Something has changed." I smile at her. "In fact, it would be very much appreciated if you would figure it out." 

"I have to figure it out? Can't you just tell me?" 

"Sorry. I don't win the bet if I tell you. You know, Justin thought Mel would get it first," I nudge her. "Go on, prove him wrong." 

She leans back, observing me studiously. I assume my best poker face. 

Linds frowns and theorises, "It's something to do with both of you." 

I shrug. She clicks her tongue. "It's something good, obviously. Something very good, if your use of the word 'perfect' is anything to go by." 

She takes a bite of her pretzel then continues thoughtfully, "It must be something very, very good, because you're all self-satisfied smiles right now and Justin was practically glowing back at the apartme-" 

Linds freezes for a moment, then her eyes widen, flicking between my face and my wedding ring. "Wait..."

"Wait, what?"

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?" I lean close and confide, "I don't win the bet if I give you hints. You have to guess."

She stares at the ring like it's going to give her the answer. I don't know why she's so focused on it all of a sudden, as though it's in any way revealing - it's the same ring I've been wearing for the past three years, which Linds is more than well aware of. 

Hesitantly, she guesses, "You... got engaged?"

Remaining carefully silent, I take another swipe at her cupcake. She's going to guess it in 5, 4, 3, 2... Linds' mouth falls open and she gapes at me. "Did you two get  _married?"_

 _"Yes!"_ I grab my phone out of my pocket. "Hold on."

"Hold on?!"

"Yeah, give me a minute."

"Brian, this is no time for interruptions! What are you doing?"

"I'm texting my  _husband,"_ I give her a smug look, "And telling him I won the bet. We knew one of you two would figure it out with your sapphic sixth sense; I bet him a rim job it would be you. Now he has to pay up."

"Right now?" Linds glances around the crowded park. "He's not going to show up here to do it, is he?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," I laugh. "The boy's a total deviant, you know."

"Yes, one made in your image," she chuckles. "Put the phone down! You can't just announce you've gotten married and then stop there. Tell me everything!"

I send Justin a quick text  _(Pay up, Sunshine)_ then slip my phone back in my pocket. "It happened on Tuesday, at City Hall."

"And?"

"And we got married."

Linds sighs wearily. "Where is Justin when you need him? I'm sure it was a little more involved than that, Brian. Last time I checked, you two were strictly partners and totally disinterested in marriage. When did that change?" 

"I don't know."

"Oh, for god's-"

"Give me that cupcake without making any comments and I'll see what I can come up with."

She smiles and hands it over silently. I peel back the wrapping and take a bite. Linds kindly wipes a smudge of frosting from the corner of my mouth.

"Did we ever tell you about how we occasionally play pretend for Kinnetik's more conservative clientele?"

"Yes, Justin mentioned how you two are essentially scamming your clients."

"We're not scamming them, we elected to sell them a version of truth that they were most comfortable with," I smirk. "And now it's not a version of the truth anymore, is it? Now it's just the truth. So they got their money's worth in the end, didn't they?"

Linds laughs softly. "I suppose so. So playing pretend was what inspired this?"

I slide closer to her on the bench and admit, "I guess I got used to calling him my husband. I started doing it with all of my clients without even realising it; Cynthia picked me up on it and spent an entire week taunting me for it, and I didn't care. It just felt... right."

I glance down at my wedding ring and start explaining it all - how when we first came up with the whole picturesque couple act, we wore our rings out to dinner. We thought it would round out the whole pseudo-Stepford aesthetic we were going for. It was supposed to just be for an evening, but when we came home, I didn't want to take it off again.

"... then Justin kept his on too and, uh, that was that."

Linds reaches over and places her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. She lifts our clasped hands up and admires my ring. "It's beautiful."

"We've been edging closer and closer to this for a while now," I say, watching a stream of runners rush by us. I wait until the frenetic patter of their footfalls is fading into the distance before I confide, "You know what I used to be like."

"I sure do."

It's hardly a secret, is it? I used to wonder why on earth I - or anyone - would ever want to get married. But for fucking ages now, I've found myself looking at him and seeing a husband. I can't come up with any good reasons not to be married to him, not when it's like this. Justin is standing firm in his resolve to keep this about us and I'm right there with him. We've agreed: our marriage will be ours and ours alone, defined by us, and us alone.

Still, that doesn't keep me from confiding in Linds. 

"It's great," I confess. "I never thought I'd say that about  _marriage,_ of all things, but it is."

"I believe the word 'perfect' was mentioned," she says, smiling tenderly at me. I return it and nod. 

As I think about him, and about us, I have to admit, "Perfect is definitely the word I'd use."

Linds kisses my hand, her eyes brimming with tears. She tries to blink them away but one slides down her cheek. I wipe it away and she says, choked up, "You're all grown up, Peter."

"Right, well that's the other thing."

"What is?"

"Last Saturday we celebrated my birthday together. I wasn't exactly in fantastic spirits about the whole thing. He'd planned out this perfect day, but I was being a sullen shit." I grimace and admit, "I wasn't ready. I mean, I really fucking wasn't. Forty seemed like this huge nightmare... I hated the idea of it. Anyway, we were just about home when he stops outside for a smoke and he... he gives me this speech. Reassuring me, you know. He was pouring his fucking heart out, practically slathering it all over the sidewalk, and I..."

Suddenly I'm the one who's choked up. Goddamnit.

Linds squeezes my hand tightly in hers, prompting me to go on. I smile at her and admit, "It made everything better. He's always had a knack for that, but this... this was his pièce de résistance, I suppose. I've spent the last year and most of my thirties dreading today and loathing the idea of turning forty, and he... he fucking fixed that. He made everything better. I couldn't hold back any longer. There was nothing to do but propose."

Linds sighs and wraps her arms around me. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

She pulls back and cradles my face in her hands momentarily, studying me. With warmth in her gaze, she whispers, "And happy birthday, honey. Now let's go home and celebrate."

*

When we get back to the apartment, Justin is dancing around the kitchen getting dinner ready. Linds rushes to him and hugs him, while I mouth smugly to him, "You owe me."

He grins and licks his lips lasciviously, then turns his attention to Linds, who apparently wants more details.

"I told you everything," I protest.

"He said you got married on Tuesday at City Hall," Linds says to Justin. They shake their heads and look at me with exasperation.

"Help me with dinner and I'll tell you the whole story," Justin offers, eyeing me with amusement. "There's a lot more to it than that."

I follow them into the kitchen and listen to him tell the tale. Though it might be more detailed than my earlier iteration, there are still huge sections missing. Each and every time I notice an omission, Justin must notice me noticing it, for he shoots me a look as though to say:  _That part is just for us._

 _As it should be,_ I say back with a small smile. I mean, why force a spectacle? It was never about that.

That said, I'm sure he's told Daphne every last little detail - as he is wont to do. But I'll let that one slide.

*

When I wake Gus up from his nap before dinner, he catapults out of bed and into my arms. I groan a little. "Oof! You're growing up, kiddo."

"I missed you," is all he says, holding on to me with a death grip. 

"I missed you, too," I murmur, glad to have him close again. "I hear you have a lot planned for this week."

"It's your birthday," he says, giving me a big, toothy grin. "I want it to be your best one ever."

"I'm sure it will be. Now come on, dinner's ready."

Gus races off excitedly to find his place at the table. I follow, and join Justin and Linds in the kitchen. Justin hands us each something to carry in. I press my lips to the shell of his ear and whisper, "A job well done as always, Suzy Homemaker."

He snickers and slides his hand into my back pocket, groping me. "Hurry up and get the dinner on the table,  _hubby."_

Since Gus is watching us, I resist the urge to spank Justin and follow his directions obediently. As he comes in with the last of the food, he mouths  _good boy_ at me. I wait until Gus is distracted by pouring everyone's drinks and grope Justin as he sits down next to me. He stifles a yelp. Linds and Gus remain oblivious, but Mel notices and shakes her head at me, a slight smile twisting at her lips.

"Brian and Justin have news!" Linds announces, practically shouting across the dinner table. Gus and Justin both start at her outburst. She covers her hand with her mouth. "Sorry. But really, you can't make me keep it a secret any longer."

"What's the news?" Mel asks, her gaze flicking between Justin and I. 

"Is it good news?" Gus asks, chewing his lower lip. "You're not having a baby, are you?"

Justin pulls a face. "Ew, no."

"It's great news," Linds proclaims, grinning. She glances at me and Justin. "Sorry, I'll let you two explain."

I look at Justin and he looks back at me, each of us apparently waiting for the other to make the announcement. I shrug at him, and with a blush rising on his face, he says happily, "We, um. We got married."

Mel drops her fork. Gus' eyes bug out of his face. Linds jumps up and throws herself at Justin for the tenth time since we got back to the apartment, practically squeezing the life out of him with her embrace. I grab her arms and adjust her grip on him. "Do you mind? I'd like my husband to at least make it to our one-week anniversary."

"That's three days away," Justin explains, as Linds holds him more delicately. He kisses her cheek and snuggles into her embrace. "We got married on Tuesday at City Hall. And we just spent the last few days on the West Coast honeymooning. We'll have photos and presents for you guys after dinner."

Having recovered from her shock, Mel grins at us and says, "Congratulations. Good for you two."

Then she grabs my hand from across the table and smiles at me meaningfully, like she's proud of me or something. 

"You said you didn't want to be husbands," Gus says abruptly, frowning. "You said it wasn't right for you two."

"Well, Gussy, people change," Linds explains gently.

"Relationships change," Justin adds. "We're in a different place now."

"That's for sure," Gus snipes.

Shit. Here we go.

While I'm bracing myself for impact, Justin seems perfectly calm. He smiles and says, "We hope you don't mind that you weren't there, Gussy."

Gus sinks down in his chair and scowls at Justin. "No, please, why ever would you think  _that?_ I just  _love_ being excluded, especially when my DADS are getting MARRIED."

Of course, Justin is so well-practised at dealing with my temper that Gus' anger doesn't phase him in the slightest. He just smiles apologetically and says, "Well, maybe this'll make up for it."

He reaches under the table and retrieves a gift bag from one of the empty seats. "We felt bad that you missed it, so I made this for you."

Gus glares at us as Justin hands the gift bag across the table. It dangles between them for a horribly tense moment, until Mel finally snatches it and drops it in his lap. "Open it or I will, kiddo. And you never know, I might just like what I find and decide to keep it for myself."

Gus scrambles to open it. Linds repositions herself between Justin and I, slinging an arm around each of us. From the gift bag comes a wrapped gift, covered in ribbons in Gus' favourite colours. He smiles a little at that, and then absolutely shreds the wrapping, retrieving a sketchbook from the wreckage. I recognise it as Justin's other true love that he brought along on our honeymoon - every time I turned around, his nose was buried in it, but he wouldn't let me see what he was working on.  _It's a surprise for Gus,_ he would say, shying away and hiding it from me,  _you can see it when he does._

"Gussy, bring it over here," Linds urges. He slides under the table and reappears on our side, leaning against me as he opens the book. Mel jumps up and comes to stand next to Justin, ruffling his hair affectionately. 

Gus reads aloud from the first page: " _For Gus - we wish you could have been here_."

He looks at Justin with great disdain. "Uh, then you should have invited me."

Mel swats the back of his head lightly. "Watch it, mister."

Gus sighs and turns the page. As he does so, his breath catches. "Moms, look."

"We are, baby," Linds says softly. Gus gulps and turns the pages over and over, devouring Justin's sketches which illustrate almost everything Gus missed out on - the proposal, the wedding, the decent portions of the honeymoon. The entire book is filled; no wonder his hand was cramping on the plane ride home. There's illustrations of City Hall, Vegas, San Francisco; there's page after page of us - saying our vows, hugging outside City Hall, dancing in our hotel room; and on the final page, our hands melded together, showing our wedding rings.

Gus closes the book and places it gently on the table, then hurls himself into Justin's arms. He kisses Justin's cheeks and cries, "It's beautiful."

"You like it?"

"I  _love_ it!" Gus buries his head in Justin's shoulder. "Thank you, Jus."

"We are really sorry you couldn't be there," I say. Gus leaps from Justin's arms into mine, clinging to me. "You would have made a good best man, Sonny Boy."

"Yeah, but it's okay," Gus clutches the sketchbook to his chest and returns to his seat. As Mel and Linds follow suit, he mumbles, "This is really great."

I nudge Justin and begin to ask, "You-"

"Made copies?" He grins at me. "Of course I did."

"So was it just you two there?" Gus asks, holding up a page showing us sitting together in the clerk's office.

"There were other couples, too," I say, then gag and mouth at Mel and Linds, "All hetero."

Then I look at Gus and say, "We wanted you there. If we could have chosen anyone to be there, it would have been you."

Justin nods emphatically. "You're not mad, are you, Gussy?"

"I'm not... _mad._ I just don't get it." Gus' face crumples in pure bewilderment. "You could have had a wedding with everyone there. With lots of flowers like at Uncle Ted's wedding or a really big cake like Uncle Em had. You could have had presents!"

"We didn't really feel like flowers or cake or presents," Justin explains. "We just wanted it to be about the two of us."

Gus looks at us like we're both utterly insane, then drops his gaze back to the sketchbook and mutters, "You guys are so weird sometimes."

"That's one word for it," Mel says, smirking. "Now, how about a toast before we eat? Gus, honey, put the book away for now."

Gus races off to his room to stow it away and then comes sprinting back, joining us as we raise our glasses. He picks up his glass of juice and raises it really high, almost above his head. He beams at me and I grin back. From the corner of my eye, I can see Linds is wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Justin rests his hand on my knee under the table, squeezing lightly. I rest my hand atop his.

"To the happy couple," Mel says, smiling at Justin, then at me. She raises her glass a little higher, her gaze filled with pride and awe. "Congratulations, you two."

"Congratulations," Gus and Linds echo, and we all clink our glasses and drink. 


	6. Justin

People say everything changes after you get married.

This has been promised to me repeatedly by almost every married person I know. I tell them I'm not so sure, that I don't think anything needs to change with Brian and I, that I doubt anything will; inevitably, they laugh or shake their heads at me, promising once again that  _marriage changes you, both of you, everything about you._

Part of me wonders if they're conflating marriage with monogamy, or with having more children. Perhaps they all think that one or both of those are the next step for us. Well, they're wrong - Brian and I have an aversion to the idea of having any more children, and we're also blissfully happy with our marriage being an open one.

Still, the promises persist. 

_Marriage will change the two of you._

_Marriage will change everything._

 

So, after about the two-hundred-and-eleventh time this gets promised to me, I start wondering if it's true. And then I start waiting. I start waiting for any sign of change, and I wait, and wait, and wait. In between all of this waiting, I find myself wondering what on earth would ever need to change when what Brian and I have is so fucking wonderful. But change has been foretold, so I wait for it.

It never comes.

 

  
At first, everything feels a little strange. It's like I'm through the looking glass, in a bizarre mirror world where Brian is totally calm and collected about being a man of forty, and where we're  _married_ and we are  _husbands_ in a  _marriage_ and I... I can't totally process it. The thought of it makes me bubble over with happiness, but it's still foreign. It's something I haven't quite gotten used to yet. I'm more than happy to throw myself in the deep end and let myself get acquainted, though. That's no trouble at all.  


 

Two months in, and everything starts to feel normal again. Day by day, I get used to the idea that Brian is my husband and that we're married. Nothing else changes. I wake up next to him almost every morning, unless he's back in Pittsburgh for business or I'm away for another show. We fuck, we have breakfast, he tells me he loves me and leaves for work. We meet for lunch sometimes; other nights he shows up at the studio with food. We call Gus every night to hear about his day (if he doesn't call us first, thirsting to tell us everything he's been doing). We go dancing every chance we get. We fuck, and we fuck, and we fuck until everything else is a blur. We continue wearing the rings like we have for years now, and we still have our secret little language. The only thing that's different is that I can call him my husband, and hear him call me the same. But every other thing is as it was. Everyone's much-loved, oft-repeated prophecy fails to come true. 

 

  
Four months, three weeks, and one day after our wedding (not that I'm counting or anything), Brian brings home roses. They're like the roses he gets me every year for my birthday - bright yellow, a dozen of them in a glass vase.  _They, uh, reminded me of you,_ he said, somewhat shyly, the first time he gave them to me, the year after Hustlergate. I just about melted. I still do; the melting is as much of a tradition as the roses, really. When he brings them home on a day that definitely isn't my birthday or our anniversary, I ask him what they're for. Brian eyeballs me and says, "I know you said you didn't want me to change. But I saw them and thought of you and wanted to get them for you. And quite frankly, I'll do whatever the fuck I want to. Is that alright by you, Sunshine?" I suppress my smile and say very seriously, "I'll allow it." And then I kiss him and tease him mercilessly, because he hasn't changed - this is exactly like him: Brian Kinney, not-so-secret sweetheart. "I'm on to you, Kinney," I say, just as he grabs me and wrestles me into the bedroom.  


 

Six months go by and even though we've always agreed that anniversaries are stupid and anniversaries-that-aren't are even stupider, I make a big deal out of the occasion. I pretend not to (just like he always pretends the roses aren't a big deal when, in fact, they fucking well are), but Brian's not fooled. When I tell him we have dinner plans, he smiles and comments, "Funny how today of all days, it's six months to the day since we got married." I shrug it off as though that hadn't even occured to me. I start getting ready to head to the studio, when he comes and swallows me in a hug. "I'll be there," he promises, whispering it in my ear. If this were anyone but us, we'd poke fun and point out that six months does not an anniversary make, and that assimilationism is hardly cause for celebration. But this is us, just the two of us, and so we go to dinner and celebrate - secretly, of course, because we're not about to go and give our asshole friends the satisfaction. 

 

Maybe things have changed a little. Maybe the roses for no reason and the non-anniversary anniversary dinner are evidence that marriage has changed us. But that's not what the prophecy foretold; everyone seemed so sure marriage was a Big Change, a Huge Development, a revolution waiting to overthrow our relationship as we knew it.

 

At seven months, I decide to ask Brian what he thinks. He looks at me like I've gone insane and then demands defensively, "What the fuck needs to change?" I tell him with instantly and with absolute certainty that nothing needs to change, that everything is great. He shrugs and says, "Then there you have it. Fuck what anyone else says. What do they know about our relationship?" Clarity washes over me, followed by relief. I climb into his lap and kiss him, pouring gratitude into it. Brian hooks an arm around my neck and slips his other hand under my shirt, sliding it up my back, turning more and more possessive by the moment.

 

  
He's right - what would they know about our relationship? Almost everyone we know seems to have some idea of what marriage is going to do to us, or what it took for us to get to this point (with most fingers pointed squarely, and almost accusingly, in my direction), or what it will take for us to sustain this level of commitment. Really, though, that hasn't changed - not one iota. We're as committed as we ever were.

And exactly what they're basing all of this on, I don't know. So much of our relationship exists just between the two of us now and I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. Daph is the only person I really feel comfortable  _really_ sharing with. Everyone else's view into our relationship is filtered. For some, it's almost completely obscured.  


 

  
So I stop waiting for some Big Change. I stop worrying about Huge Developments. There is no revolution coming, I realise, and thank  _fuck_ for that! I love things the way they are. I love that we have our life as we knew it; now it's our life as we know it, except that we're husbands and we're married. I'm used to that now - it doesn't feel foreign or unfamiliar anymore. There is still, though, that burst of happiness that comes with calling Brian my husband or remembering that we're  _married._ I don't think that will ever go away, and honestly, I hope it doesn't.  


Eight months in, and we make another trip to Pittsburgh to visit the family for a weekend. A week would be more appropriate given how much there is to do and how many people there are to see, but we both have to be back in New York by Monday, so a jam-packed weekend is the only way to go. I imagine half of that will be spent with mom and Molly, who are still over the freaking moon about Brian and I being married. I'll almost certainly need to set aside a considerable amount of time to pry mom off Brian, her much-adored son-in-law. She is utterly obsessed with calling him that. To be quite honest, my inner child - a very petty seventeen year old version of myself - is dying to pencil in some time to tell her that I _told her so_ \- I always knew Brian and I were supposed to be together. Or maybe I shouldn't - the last time I bragged about being my being right and her being wrong in regards to Brian, mom retaliated by sharing a whole slew of embarrassing childhood stories with him. He just loved that, of course. That was two years ago and I _still_ haven't heard the end of it.

Since mom is busy with a work function when we fly in, Michael and Ben snag us first. They collect us from the airport and take us to the diner for dinner, where Deb drowns us both in hugs and lavishes us with attention. Dinner turns into dessert, which turns into coffee after coffee after coffee, until we're the only people left in the diner. The night is spent talking about the kids, Kinnetik, and every other topic that I can come up with that doesn't relate to our marriage. I'm sure it's just around the corner, though - Michael and Ben are exactly the type to want to quiz us about it. It's not that I _hate_ talking about it, but it's strange discussing something that seems so private. I also want to avoid the speculation that Michael and Ben have been known to indulge in. They're still firmly in the  _marriage changes everything_ camp, and I don't think they've quite realised that I've decisively pitched my tent in the  _fuck off, it has nothing to do with you_ camp.

Fortunately, Brian feels as strongly as I do, and we've devised a way of dealing with questions we don't want to answer and otherwise dodging unwanted 'advice'.

 

"So how's married life?" Michael asks, smiling brightly at us. "Tell us all about it."

 

  
I just  _knew_  Michael would be the one to bring it up. I nudge my knee against Brian's under the table. He nudges back.  


 

"Well, it's like all marriages, isn't it?" I ask, smirking at Brian. We nod at each other. Time to have some fun.

 

"The sex is... dwindling," Brian says wearily.

 

  
"Please, it's dwind _led._  We're down to once every two months," I wrinkle my nose and add, "And even then, only when Brian remembers to follow the rules. Lights off and no eye contact."  


 

"No kissing, either."

 

"And no hands," I add, gagging. "I don't want his hands on me."

 

He nods and laments, "My touch sickens him."

 

"It does," I confirm, shuddering dramatically. "It really does. I'm thinking of painting a line down the middle of the apartment to make sure we don't even bump into each other accidentally."

 

"And forget blow jobs; he used those to reel me in and then banned them the instant we signed the marriage certificate."

 

I stare at Brian and deadpan, "Why do you think I married you?"

 

"To avoid blow jobs?" He slaps his hand on the table. "That was it?"

 

"I mean, I guess I loved you," I shrug. "Mostly the possibility of a blow job exemption was too good to pass up."

 

He looks at Michael and Ben with mock outrage. "Hear that? 'Loved'. Past tense."

 

"Sorry," I say insincerely, "It faded after the first few months."

 

  
"It faded for me after the first few  _weeks_ ," Brian retorts hotly, as I stifle my laughter by taking a drink of my coffee. He surveys me critically and announces, "Honestly? I'm thinking of trading him in for a younger model."  


 

  
" _I'm_ thinking of trading  _you_ in for a younger model!"  


 

"Can you two assholes answer a question seriously?" Michael shakes his head at us, the very picture of disapproval. 

 

"I doubt it," Brian says with a smirk, hooking his fingers inside the collar of my shirt so he can pull me in for a kiss - one which is hardly appropriate for a decent married couple. But we're lightyears away from decent, so I plaster myself to him and kiss him passionately.

 

Michael clears his throat pointedly and we reluctantly untangle ourselves. Brian rolls his eyes. Somewhat breathlessly, I ask, "What was the question?"

 

At that, Michael throws his hands up in despair. Ben chuckles and asks calmly, "How's married life?"

 

Brian and I grin at each other.

 

"We spend every weekend at the country club," I boast in a sickly-sweet tone. "We're thinking of signing up for their doubles tournament next summer. Honey-pie, I've been meaning to ask - do you think we should go for the lavender or the peach tennis shirts?"

 

"Lavender, obviously," Brian smiles sweetly, "You'd look ever so dashing in it, pumpkin."

 

  
"Lavender it is," I beam at Michael and Ben. Michael might be trying to scowl at me but I know he's fighting a smile, while Ben is just laughing. "We've also discovered our true passion in life -  _antiquing._ "  


 

Dreamily, Brian adds, "And we're thinking of moving to Connecticut."

 

  
"Oh, Manhattan is so  _drab,"_ I bemoan. "The suburbs are the only place to be. Right, sweet pea?"  


 

"Right, sugarplum. Plus we'll summer in the Hamptons."

 

"And winter in Aspen!"

 

"Forget we asked," Michael groans. "You two are impossible."

 

Deb approaches with a pot of coffee in hand. "More coffee, boys?"

 

"Yes, please," Ben and I say.

 

She tops us up. "What are we talking about?"

 

"We were trying to get a straight answer out of these two about how their marriage is going," Michael grumbles, "But they're being assholes."

 

  
"Why would you even try to get a  _straight_  answer out of them?" Deb quips, laughing raucously. She sets her coffee pot down and eyeballs us. "Besides, just look at them. What else do you need to know? They're happy."  


 

"Yeah," I agree. Brian grabs my hand under the table, his thumb gravitating to my ring finger. I smile at him and he grins back. "We're happy."

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to Lionel Shriver for the quote Justin alluded to: "I am confessedly and unashamedly almost fifty years old and never lie about my age because I want credit for every damned year."


End file.
